Death from Nowhere (24 page)

Woody had to admit he did. “Ted VanRyn hinted to me before he left that he was going after treasure.”

“I see,” Church said. “You knew him then?”

Woody groaned. “Yes. I knew him, but he was a good friend of mine. I wouldn't have knifed him — not even for six hundred and fifty million dollars.”

“And Richards. What about him?”

The phone that was on the desk by Church's elbow rang. Its sound, though none of them knew it then, was the cue that sent the curtain up on the last crowded act of danger and death.

Church should have answered it himself. But instead he nodded at the stenographer and said, “Take it.”

The detective picked up the receiver, listened a moment, and then said, “Right. I'll tell him.” He turned to Church, still holding the phone. “It's Schultz reporting, sir. He's found a taxi driver who picked up a man answering T.G. Alexander's description outside the Winfield Hotel just after two-thirty this afternoon. He took him to 634 East Sixty-third Street.”

Church goggled at him. And then he swiveled in his chair and came up on to his feet. He looked across at Dr. Conrad Bent who stood by the door.

“Six thirty-four East Sixty-third Street. Bent,
that's your address!
”

It seemed impossible that one short minute could hold so much dynamite. But it did — and more. The doctor moved and started to speak, but Mr. Shivara's voice came first, cutting like a dagger through the still reverberating silence.

“Inspector, I have a statement of the utmost importance to make. I think that I had better make it now. I must see you alone for one moment!”

14
See New York American, May 15, 1938.

C
HAPTER
XI

Race Against Death

T
HINGS
were happening altogether too fast. The Inspector looked at the Hindu, decided he could wait for a moment, and turned back to Dr. Bent.

“What is Alexander doing at your place?”

Conrad Bent said, “If you had finished your questioning, Inspector, and if you had gotten around to me, I would have told you that. But so much has happened in the last hour that I've had no chance.…”

Church was impatient. “Yeah, I know. But answer me! And you might tell us who Alexander is, too.”

Shivara broke in, “Inspector—”

But Church wouldn't listen to him. “Quiet!” he roared. “Bent—”

“Alexander,” Bent said, “is Ted VanRyn. His death in Persia seems to have been exaggerated. He arrived at my office this afternoon in a cab at about a quarter to three. He paid the driver off, walked up the front steps and just managed to ring the doorbell before he collapsed.

“I discovered that he had been stabbed. He was very weak from loss of blood. I gave him first aid and told Miss Morton, my assistant, to phone the police. He was conscious enough to hear and understand that. He objected strongly, insisting that the wound was accidental and not a matter for the police.

“I told him that I would have to report it anyway, and then he admitted he had been the victim of an attempted murder. But he insisted that the police, that no one whatever, must be made aware of where he was.

“When I heard his whole story, I was inclined to agree with him. I promised to keep his whereabouts a secret, at least until he was recovered enough to defend himself from the men who wanted to kill him, the men who had followed him for six thousand miles trying …”

Mr. Shivara once more tried to get some attention. “Inspector, the doctor's story is very interesting and important, but it can wait. Mine cannot. Unless you hear what I have to say, you will be too late to prevent another murder.”

The Inspector was like a small boy who cannot decide between a circus parade at one end of the street and a fire at the other. Bent's evidence was a parade of new and startling information. Shivara's mysterious hints were blazing question marks.

He swore frustratedly and fired one more question at Bent. “Does VanRyn know who his attacker was?”

Bent shook his head. “No, but I think I do. Ted said he had been followed by members of an Indian Fascist Organization. Perhaps what Mr. Shivara wants to tell you is the fact that he is the head of it!”

Shivara got the attention he wanted now. Church took the phone that the detective at his side still held and barked into it, “Schultz, where art you? … Interboro Cab offices.… Okay, pick up a car and get over to that address. Stick there until I come.” He dropped the receiver back on the phone rest and faced Shivara.

“Okay. Spill it. What's so important?”

Shivara shook his head. “No, Inspector. I said alone. Not before all these people.”

“And why not?”

Shivara took a step forward and faced him across the desk. The man's suave detachment was gone. There was no hint of the characteristic cool smile on the dark face. His eyes flashed angrily.

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

The Inspector leaned forward, his hands on the desk top. His eyes, too, flashed angrily and his determined jaw shoved out another half inch.

Quickly Shivara added, “I can tell you who tried to kill VanRyn and who murdered Richards. Not only that, but I can tell you how it was done — with proof!”

Those promises were too much for Church. He turned to his assistant. “Okay. Take these people across to the living room — and watch them. I'll give him about two minutes.” He faced Hindu again, “And it had better be good!”

It was good. It was very good; but it wasn't what had been promised.

The library door closed on the Inspector and Shivara. Two minutes passed and lengthened into five. The group in the living room waited nervously under the lynx-eyed scrutiny of half a dozen of the Inspector's men.

Then Don Diavolo noticed that Chan, in a chair by the fireplace, was scowling ferociously over a pencil and a piece of paper. Don looked over his shoulder and saw, in Chan's handwriting, part of a cryptic inscription that he had seen once before — on the Dagger of Darius.

“What do you make of it, Chan,” he asked. “It's Hindustani, isn't it?”

The boy nodded. “Yes. But very strange words somehow. Think it not only in Hindustani, but also in code. Might be directions for finding—”

Chan's head jerked around toward the hall. The sound that came from behind that closed library door was unmistakable.

It came again, twice more. The deep thudding bark of a .45!

Detectives raced for the door and found it locked on the inside. The firing commenced again.

They flung themselves against the heavy barrier and knew as they did so that it was useless. Don Diavolo's fingers reached for the keyring that held his picklocks as he leaped to help them.

Then, from inside, the Inspector's voice came, “Wait, dammit!”

There was something about his voice that reminded Don of the shaken accents Woody had used earlier when he had found Richards' body and had not been able to believe his eyes.

A key turned in the door and Church's voice commanded, “Keep the doorway blocked! Shivara's in here someplace. He has to be.
But I can't see him!
”

Lieutenant Brophy slipped through the narrow opening and stared at the Inspector whose shaking hand held a smoking gun that wavered and did not know where to aim. Across the room a picture had fallen from the wall, its glass splintered by a bullet. There were more bullet holes in the wall by the door, one of which had smashed through and shattered a priceless Kuan Yin statuette.

But Shivara was not visible. The yellow Dagger of Darius that had lain on the desk top was now six feet away in the center of the floor. Church stared at it as though it might be a rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike.

It was Brophy who pointed with the gun in his hand toward the dark booklined alcove to the left beyond the desk. He started toward it just as the long spurt of flame stabbed toward him and brought him down.

As he fell forward and slid along the floor there was a shattering smash of glass from within the alcove. Then bedlam broke loose as Sayre's burglar alarm system went into action!

The Inspector's gun clicked against an empty chamber and he ran, still clutching the useless weapon, straight for the alcove. The detectives behind him poured through the door.

In the street outside, the motor of a car roared. Two of Church's men followed through the gaping hole in the smashed window pane and dropped to the pavement outside, firing as they jumped.

One answering shot came from the black sedan as it turned a corner two blocks away and vanished.

Inspector Church pounced on the phone. He had caught the car's license number and he gave it to headquarters along with a few smoking cusswords and a roaring request for all the squad cars in town.

Brophy pulled himself to a sitting position on the floor, held a hand to his shoulder where a dark stain spread, and asked, “What do you mean, you couldn't see him?”

“Just what I said,” Church replied, looking more than a little frayed about the edges. “Shivara began talking as soon as you left, a long-winded lot of nonsense that didn't even make sense. I started to tell him what to do with it when he started to fade on me!”

“Fade?” Brophy asked. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. He stood there six feet in front of me, right under that chandelier in full light, and he faded right out of sight like a damned ghost. I pulled my gun, and then I got a glimpse of that dagger on the desk. I saw it move.

“It lifted right up off the desk like a kite and floated toward the door. I fired at it twice. And then it jumped out into the center of the room and fell to the floor!”

Church was finding out now exactly how Woody Haines had felt when he had told his story. The Inspector went on, speaking in a hopelessly bewildered voice, not believing what he had seen, but ready to swear he had seen it.

“Then I saw the key turn in the door and I fired at that. I knew he was there somewhere but I couldn't see him. So I took a few potshots at random. That's all. And don't tell me I'm tight. I wish I were.” Church picked up the silver carafe on the desk and poured himself a glass of water.

Brophy said, “That auto is going to look damned queer, racing along with no one in it. He won't get far looking like — like nothing.”

It was then that Sergeant Kramer made the discovery that nearly put Inspector Church down for the count completely.

He burst into the room and, instead of breaking the bad news gently, let it go with a roar that was as frightening as the dive of a Stuka bomber.

“That magician,” he shouted, “and the reporter and Dr. Bent.
They're gone!
”

A few minutes before, as the detectives had rushed into the library, and on toward the alcove and its broken window with their guns blazing, Diavolo had seen that he and the others were momentarily unguarded. And in that same split second, he also realized that he knew what Shivara was up to.

He whirled toward Woody at his side and said, “Shake a leg. We're going places. Fast!” Then he grabbed Conrad Bent's arm, pointed back along the hall, and said, “You too! Show me the back way out. Quick!”

Caught by the excitement in Don's voice, the doctor sprinted down the hall, past the double doors of the collection room, to another smaller door beyond.

The three men plunged through the kitchens, scattering maids and servants like tenpins. They came out on to Sixtieth Street and charged across to where Karl Hartz was parked in the Diavolo big red Packard.

Karl started to speak, but before his words got into motion, Don had shoved him over, slid in behind the wheel, and the car was moving. Woody and Dr. Bent threw themselves in as it moved

“VanRyn,” Don explained as they shot across Park against a red light and missed disaster in the crosswise stream of traffic by inches, “Shivara heard his address and staged that act back there as a play for time, so he could reach VanRyn while Church and the dicks are picking themselves up and trying to decide what happened!”

Don twisted the steering wheel savagely and the big car took a corner on two wheels. Behind them a traffic cop's whistle shrilled angrily.

“Doc,” Diavolo said over his shoulder, “This boy Shivara makes a poker crawl across the floor, projects an astral double of himself and goes invisible on the Inspector. He says he does it by sheer concentration. You're a psychologist. What about it?”

Bent clutched the side of the swaying car and leaned forward. “I've also seen him levitate himself until he floated five feet off the ground! It has me licked. I don't know.”

“What about hypnotism?” Don asked. “That's up your alley, isn't it?”

Bent nodded. “Yes, of course. But … but—”

“But what?” the magician insisted.

“That's the first thing I thought of, naturally,” Bent answered. “But it doesn't meet the facts. You can't hypnotise just anybody and certainly not without their cooperation. Lots of people can't be hypnotized. I can show you case histories by the hundred and authorities by the dozen who'll snow you under with proof of that.